Crafting Stories: A Decade of Passion

The ink is a pulse, a rhythmic beat,
Where worlds are born and shadows meet.
For ten long years, the stories have grown,
In quiet rooms and the great unknown—
From the dark of the woods to the stars above,
Built with a decade of labor and love.

There is a lightning strike in the chest
When a character finally stands the test,
When a sentence clicks like a skeleton key
And the soul of the book is finally free.
I know these bones, I know they are strong,
I’ve carried these voices for far too long.

But the silence is heavy, a vast, open sea,
Between the heart of the book and the eyes that should see.
I’ve woven the magic, I’ve mapped out the stars,
I’ve bled on the pages and counted the scars.
I stand at the window, my hands on the glass,
Watching the world and the witnesses pass.

“Look here,” I whisper, “the bridge is now built,
Full of wonder and terror, of glory and guilt.”
I know it is good—I have felt the fire burn,
I’ve earned every chapter and every sharp turn.
The thrill is the making, the joy is the craft,
But the hope is the reader on this lonely raft.

So I’ll keep on shouting into the dark,
Fanning the ember and chasing the spark.
For the stories are ready, the gates are ajar,
Waiting for someone to see who we are.

More works by Nancy Ann Creed

MAEVE https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd
MATTHEW https://books2read.com/u/bzNZYj
JUSTIN https://books2read.com/u/mBKzLZ
MAURELLE https://books2read.com/u/bzN19D
ANNBELLE https://books2read.com/u/bWqEkx
Carillon https://books2read.com/u/38anZV (COMING MARCH 1, 2026)

The Echo of Regret: A Vow Against Futility

adventurer in majestic cave with sunbeams
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The Echo of Regret: A Vow Against Futility

The shadow falls, a failure in my sight,
Disappointment’s echo, haunting day and night.
Regret’s cold hand upon my waking thought,
A hollow dream, the battle that we fought.

A profound, persistent ache resides within,
A deep, visceral wound where grief begins.
Each time the news arrives, a soul has gone,
The numbers climb, yet tragedy lives on.

For those now lost within the heavy fog,
This deep despair, no fleeting shadow slog,
It raises questions that torment the soul:
How could we shield them, how regain control?

What could I, personally, have done to reach,
To pull them back, beyond the final beach?
Why do such vibrant lives, with potential vast,
End in this final, devastating, broken blast?

The pain, a sickening, immediate jolt,
A punch that leaves me breathless and unbolt.
Another one lost, a cycle we can’t cease,
The repetition numbs, yet sharp remains the piece.

A desperate cry: What can be truly done,
When the tide of loss engulfs the rising sun?
We must find answers, a pathway to prevent,
A strategy of hope, with all our power lent.

What can we do, right now, with urgent plea,
To stop this cycle of futility?
They were too young, their promise yet untold,
A song cut short, a story left untold.

Reduced to cold, impersonal distress,
A public crisis we cannot suppress.
The lives they were, a silence left behind,
Deafening echoes of the best of humankind.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

A Silent Farewell

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A Silent Farewell

I hide myself away, retreating from the world’s harsh light,
To hide from those I fear, the shadows that invade the night.
The whispers and the judging eyes, they pierce me to the core,
So I draw the curtains closed, and lock the heavy door.
I hide myself away, within this solitary keep,
A silent farewell for now, while deeper secrets sleep.

The silence of this self-made cell becomes a heavy shroud,
I cried myself to sleep, a soundless weeping in the crowd.
To hide and weep, my body shaking with the strain,
To hide and weep, to wash away the bitter, throbbing pain.
Each tear a wasted moment, falling in the deep,
As promises I couldn’t keep haunt me while I sleep.

A sharp regret now cuts the air: Why did I waste so much time?
Consumed by baseless fear, an unforgivable, self-made crime.
To fear what they say, the empty words that hold no weight,
To let their careless judgments seal my solitary fate.
I should have stood defiant, met their gaze with fiery pride,
But cowardice took hold, and left me here to hide.

Again, the darkness calls me down, the cycle starts anew,
I cried myself to sleep, until the morning filtered through.
To hide and weep, a ritual of sorrow and despair,
To hide and weep, a burden that my heart can barely bear.
This isolation is a monster, feeding on my will,
A self-imposed exile upon this lonely, silent hill.

But then a whisper rises, fragile yet defined,
A voice that speaks of freedom, leaving fear behind.
Open the doors, let sunlight flood the dust and gloom,
And hide no more, escape this cold and empty room.
Open the doors, the hinges squeak with long disuse,
And hide no more, relinquish every weak excuse.
The world awaits beyond the latch, vibrant and so vast,
A future built on courage, leaving shadows in the past.

I cried myself to sleep, a memory that starts to fade,
Wasting so much time, upon a path too long delayed.
Wasting so much time, a treasure carelessly set free,
But now the lock is broken, and the key belongs to me.
The sun on my face is a promise, clear and bold,
A new story beginning, waiting to unfold.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Weary Crown of Morning

aerial photography of city buildings during golden hour
Photo by Eric Goverde on Pexels.com

The jarring, insistent shriek,
An alarm clock’s metallic cry,
Assaults the fragile morning’s peace,
A painful echo in the sky
Of my dark skull. I groan, a sound
Instantly swallowed by the deep,
Heavy silence all around,
I try to meld back into sleep.

A cruel hand pulls, a rhythmic beat,
From sleep’s warm, velvet, soft embrace,
It snatches me, with sudden heat,
And leaves my heart against my face.
My eyes fly open, dark and blank,
Staring up at the ceiling’s shade,
My body, safe within the bank
Of blankets, a fortress I have made.

But now the cold kiss starts to creep,
A sharp, unwelcome morning chill,
That pricks the skin I cannot keep
Beneath the covers, lying still.
With weariness, I fight the day,
The first act: pull the fabric high,
To hide, to make the light away,
And plunge into a private sky.

No. It can’t possibly be now,
Time is a thief that steals the night,
I want to vanish, somehow,
From all the expectations of the light.
Just lie here, a statue, breathing low,
Letting my mind drift, free and wide,
Back to the quiet dreams I know,
A ghost the sheets completely hide.

This is my refuge, warm and deep,
A sanctuary I’ll not leave,
While outside, light and noises sleep.
I am a vessel that will receive
A torrent of chaotic thought,
The doubt, the list, the sudden spark,
In this brief silence, dearly bought,
Before the world steps from the dark.

But then, the quiet starts to fade,
A deep, weary settling down:
Alas, the rising must be made.
Each day, a loop, a weary crown.
I run a race that has no end,
Against the clock, against demands,
A weight that bends, and still must bend.
I shove the covers with both hands.

The only prize, the only true
Reprieve, is time, unscheduled, pure:
To take a day, a week or two,
With only my children, to be sure.
No emails, bosses, or cruel stress,
Just me and my kids, simple, slow,
Wrapped in the light of quietness.
That is the only finish line I know.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Holiday Bliss

family decorating a christmas tree
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The year turns slow, a measured, quiet grace,
The final, faded green surrenders place.
The frost begins to cling, a crystal sheen,
Upon the windowpane, a painted scene.
And through the air, a certain sweet note rings,
The hushed anticipation that it brings.
The scent of pine, a memory held dear,
The flicker of the flame that conquers fear.
The simple joy of calling out a name,
A bond rekindled in the hearth’s warm frame.
For in this season, when the world grows dim,
We gather close—the sturdy branch upon the limb.

The laughter spills from kitchens warm and bright,
A symphony of comfort, pure delight.
Reflecting back the twinkling festive light,
That chases shadows from the longest night.
The worn traditions, comforting and deep,
The silent vows the generations keep.
The treasured tales the passing years will house,
Whispered from grandmother to the spouse.
A mother’s gentle touch, a father’s quiet gaze,
The simple, stunning peace of family days.
We hold these moments, fleeting, fine, and fast,
A glowing anchor, built to truly last.
A tapestry of love in every thread,
The unsaid promises that are instead
Of grand pronouncements, simple, steady truth,
Revisiting the spirit of our youth.

Yet, in this clamor of good cheer and sound,
A deeper, silent shadow can be found.
For some hearts ache beneath the tinsel’s sheen,
Where loneliness resides, unheard, unseen.
Invisible the struggles, sharp, and keen,
The quiet battle fought behind a screen.
A heavy blanket where the light should bloom,
The suffocating weight of silent gloom.
A quiet echo in an empty room,
A whispered prayer within a sealed-off tomb.
The world rushes by with cheer and bright display,
Ignoring those who simply cannot play.

O Holy night, when love first filled the sky,
When hope descended from the heavens high,
We lift a fervent, humble, heartfelt cry:
For every soul that walks in winter’s shade,
Whose burdened spirit feels unseen, afraid—
For those who carry burdens heavy, long,
Who cannot join the general, joyful song—
May they know comfort, strength, and gentle rest,
And find the solace of a single, soft breast.

We open wide the door, the hearth, the chair,
A gesture pure, a message we can share.
To banish loneliness with genuine care,
To offer sanctuary from the chill air.
If your own light is faltering, low, and weak,
It is our kinship that we humbly seek.
You are not strange; you are not far; you belong,
Come share our shelter, join our welcoming song.
Let silence break, let every fear release,
And find within these walls a lasting peace.
May every spirit, broken, bruised, or sad,
Be touched by peace, and know they are made glad
Not just by feasting, bright and well-supplied,
But by love’s true grace that flows on every tide—
A safe, warm haven in this hallowed place,
Reflecting God’s own open, kind embrace.

I am Broken

shallow focus photo of woman s reflection on broken mirror
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I am broken.

The words, sharp and unwarranted,
slice through the fragile shell I built.
Tiny, invisible blades, their power immense,
carving my heart into scattered, irreparable pieces.

My carefully constructed dreams,
ambitious plans, vital goals—
all crumble before this onslaught,
a lifetime of building reduced to dust.
My essence, fractured, lies on the cold floor.

Why do these ephemeral sounds,
mere vibrations in the air, hurt so?
Why grant them such devastating power,
to tear the fabric of our being,
to leave us utterly immobilized?

With a deep, shuddering breath, I rise.
Muscles protest, heavy with despair.
I kneel, picking mangled, bleeding pieces
from the unforgiving floor,
cradling the remnants, a silent cry.

I try, with feverish intensity, to mend—
reaching for glue, tape, harsh staples.
But none of them hold.
The cracks are too deep, the breaks too fundamental.
A heart shattered by words
cannot be fixed by physical objects

Again, the haunting question returns:
Why do I give words this power?
Why allow such deep, lingering pain?

Yet, the act of kneeling has shifted something.
I stand up, not whole, but resilient.
I place my broken, but still beating, heart
back into my chest,
and with a final act of defiance, I dust myself off.

The reality remains:
Words possess the power to tear us down,
to reduce us to rubble,
weapons that wound the soul.

But words are not solely destruction.
They possess the capacity to restore.
A single, well-placed phrase—
of kindness, encouragement, or understanding—
can be the foundation upon which we rebuild.

Love, in its purest expression,
is the ultimate healing force,
articulated through sincere, positive words,
what ultimately saves us all.

Words can tear you down.
Words can also lift you up.

Choose your words with the highest intention.
Strive always to lift a spirit,
to reinforce worth, to acknowledge a presence.

Never fail to be kind.
Kindness is the shield against the world’s harsh words,
the balm for its inflicted injuries.

Remember this immutable truth:
Words are a powerful, double-edged sword.
They can drag someone into the deepest pit of despair,
or elevate them to heights of strength and hope.

Use this profound tool with meticulous care.
Wield your words to heal, to encourage, and to restore.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

A Flower

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A Flower

A flower blooms in the soft morning light,
A silent promise of enduring might.
Spreading its delicate petals, a vibrant hue,
Out to the warmth, the life-giving sun, shining anew.

The celestial rhythm, the sun's grand ballet,
It rises with hope, and then fades away.
Each day a fresh chapter, a pristine, clean slate,
A boundless opportunity, sealed by no fate.

Each new dawn brings a chance for profound, lasting change,
To break free from confines, to truly rearrange.
Each passing hour holds a chance for true greatness to bloom,
To conquer the darkness and dispel all the gloom.
Each single day is a new chance to reach for the dream,
To fuel the deep passion, the bright, inner gleam.

The flower drinks deep of the sun's golden shower,
Sustained by the light in this fleeting, sweet hour.
It unfurls its beauty, a joy to behold and to see,
Sharing its splendor with all, wild and free.

Be like the flower, resilient and bold,
Let your spirit unfold, a magnificent story told.
Spread your unique petals, your gifts and your grace,
For the world to witness, in this time and this place.


https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

Where hidden truths with darkness hide.

Photo by Dids . on Pexels.com

The brush poised, a question it holds,
Why does my canvas feel cold?
Colors swirl, emotions unfurl,
Yet silence echoes in the world.

Is it the stroke, too bold, too bright?
Or whispers lost in fading light?
Perhaps the theme, too dark, too deep,
No eyes to dive where secrets sleep.

Maybe the world craves shallow hues,
Sunlit smiles and morning dews.
My brushstrokes delve in shadows wide,
Where hidden truths with darkness hide.

But wait, dear heart, before you grieve,
Not all eyes miss what you achieve.
Though unseen, a seed you sow,
A quiet bloom for hearts that know.

A soul adrift may find your shore,
And see the depths you yearned to pour.
A tear may fall, a smile ignite,
For your unspoken, hidden light.

So paint, dear heart, with passion’s hand,
Let whispers dance across the land.
For even stars unseen by night,
Still guide the lost with silvered light.

One day, a hand may brush your own,
And whispers turn to songs unknown.
Then you’ll know, with tears aglow,
Your worth shines far, though whispers low.

So breathe, dear heart, and let it be,
Your art’s a gift, set spirits free.
And in the silence, find your voice,
A masterpiece, a silent choice.